Darling, you fucked up tonight
rattling the leash you dared clamp
on my husband’s sacred neck
mocking me, reminding me of
my place
in your two-bit, mortal scene.
Fat man, see that throne?
My mother made it for me
rattling the leash you dared clamp
on my husband’s sacred neck
mocking me, reminding me of
my place
in your two-bit, mortal scene.
Fat man, see that throne?
My mother made it for me
from the skulls of
pagan gods.
Rapists.
Murderers
Lawless, loveless things.
The footstool bears the image of the face
of a demon who dared try
pulling rank on me.
That throne is
my place,
given to me
by the Heavenly Queen
long before you were
an itch in your demon daddy’s undies.
Still, my seat might be uncomfortable
fashioned as it is from blanched bones.
It could use a cushion before I ascend.
A fat man should do nicely.
pagan gods.
Rapists.
Murderers
Lawless, loveless things.
The footstool bears the image of the face
of a demon who dared try
pulling rank on me.
That throne is
my place,
given to me
by the Heavenly Queen
long before you were
an itch in your demon daddy’s undies.
Still, my seat might be uncomfortable
fashioned as it is from blanched bones.
It could use a cushion before I ascend.
A fat man should do nicely.
Darling, let’s speak of
your place.
I declare that by this time
next year
you and your soulless spawn
will be living in a trailer
drinking moonshine
and screwtop wine
from broken bottles.
Your hell will hold no fire.
Nothing so grand as that.
A double wide in the desert
waits for you, oh fat man.
When you are banished there,
remember me. See my face,
oh, scheming Set,
in your new home’s peeling linoleum,
dripping faucets,
cheap, warped paneling.
I will leave
a saguaro in your yard
something green
to lend you shade.
You are so vile
you’ve reduced me
a love goddess
to just that shred of mercy.
Darling,
I hope
you like
plastic
flamingos.
Burlesque Press 